by Tanya Huff
The team didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence, well aware overt enthusiasm was more likely to be ridiculed than appreciated, also aware that waiting too long would be disrespectful. Torin was pleased to see that, as a group, they’d mastered the tricky timing—if only because it was a good indication of their cohesion as a group. When she saw she had their attention, she nodded, once, the motion an echo of DI Beyhn, Zhou’s presence reminding her of the staff sergeant long since turned qui and out of the Corps. “Welcome to Berbar Station, Strike Team U’yun.” Like the military they came from, the Strike Teams alternated Human, Taykan, and Krai designations. “You have your uniforms, you’ve had your quarters and ship assigned, you’ve spoken to Commander Ng; I’m here as the Strike Team Lead who drew the short straw to remind you that you are no longer in the military.”
Zhou rolled his eyes.
“That, and I’m currently the only Strike Team Lead on station,” Torin continued. “This is your last reminder that the rules you operate under have changed. Our job is not to protect the Confederation from an external threat, but to uphold the law. You think a law needs to be changed? Go into politics.”
Elisk shook his head. “We know we’re still following orders, Warden Kerr.”
“And you all know how to deal with orders you disagree with.” Torin and the other Strike Team Leads had made sure of that while sorting the applications. Bilodeau’s application of force to testes had only been the most overt incident. “But there’s a difference between you doing what you have to in order to get the job done, and you doing what you have to in order to get the job done within the confines of the law. You don’t shoot to kill unless there’s absolutely no choice, and you’ll defend that choice in front of a tribunal after having filled out an astounding amount of paperwork. Some of it on actual paper.”
Tylen grinned, enough light receptors open her eyes were at least three shades brighter orange than her hair. “So you’re saying we can’t call in an artillery strike?”
“I’m saying we don’t have artillery. With any luck we can make the job redundant before we need the heavy hitters.”
“And then what?”
“Up to you. That’s my point. In the military, you followed orders. Here, you make decisions. Each Strike Team contains no more than seven people because if the teams are any larger, decisions don’t get made. I don’t know,” she said before Zhou could ask. “They did studies. Not our problem. Superficially, the Strike Teams look military and remembering they aren’t is the hardest thing you’ll have to do while taking fire during an advance on an entrenched position. There’s a team lead because the buck has to stop somewhere.” The occasional piece of oldEarth idiom had made the change into Federate intact although doubt remained over what a buck might have been. “Any questions.”
“Warden Kerr?” Bilodeau stepped forward. “Humans First?”
“What about them?”
“They’ve increased their activities to the point where the news refers to them by name.”
“Gleefully in a few instances where the broadcasters weren’t Human,” Zhou muttered, brown eyes narrowed.
“They’ve been mentioned in every political broadcast in the last three tendays,” Bilodeau continued, “Wouldn’t it be easier if, instead of reacting to what they do . . .” She leaned forward, weight on the balls of her feet. “. . . we proactively took them out?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question; she’d asked it during her initial interview, during her psych evaluation, and twice Torin knew of during training. It appeared she was going to keep asking until she got an answer she approved of.
“Yes. It’d be easier,” Torin admitted. “But we don’t proactively keep people from breaking the law. We assume sentient beings can manage that on their own. We clean up the mess when they don’t.”
“But Humans First has already broken the law.”
“Laws,” Torin allowed. “Plural. But you can’t arrest an organization, and the kind of social engineering it would require to effectively shut it down isn’t our job.”
“You infiltrated the organization and made mass arrests.”
“Yes, we did. We were contractors then, different rules. We operated . . .”
“Outside the law?” Yahsamus suggested.
“Beside the law. If you—any of you—can get the Justice Department to send us out again, I’ll want to know how you managed it because they’re not listening to the rest of us. That said, keep two things in mind. First, this is a job, not a profession, you can be fired for being a pain in the ass above and beyond. Second, the suggestion has already been made multiple times, so if you’re going to double down, talk to the other teams first and we’ll let you know if you’re covering old ground.”
“Why become a Warden if you got more done beside the law?” Zhou wondered, dropping one butt cheek onto the corner of the refreshment table. He rose in sync with Torin’s eyebrow and tried to look as though he’d intended to stand back up.
There’d been a lot of reasons, chief among them Torin’s need to belong to something bigger than she was. To belong to something that would take care of her people if she couldn’t. As it happened, her first reason was the first reason Zhou had given when asked why he was applying to become a Warden—although she had no intention of sharing that information. “As contractors, we blurred the lines between what was right for the Confederation as a whole and what was right for us. In time, we’d have become part of the problem.” Entropy always won. Torin refused to help. “Besides, if it was easy, anyone could do it and you lot would’ve been here two tendays ago instead of enjoying yet another round of testing.”
“So you’re saying we’re the best?” Elisk asked, nostril ridges open.
“Out of a sorry lot,” she agreed.
Corporal di’Burlut Nicholin barked out a laugh, umber hair lifting. Tylen punched him in the shoulder and the other five grinned. They knew they were the best; no one needed to tell them.
“You’re off duty until 0800 tomorrow when there’ll be an all teams meeting. Unless a team returns in the next eighteen hours, that means U’yun and Alpha—and there’s always a chance one or both of us will be deployed before then. My niece’s environmental corps has military similarities,” she added and Zhou closed his mouth again. “That doesn’t make them the military. Your quarters have been stocked with the basics, and your accounts are active. The station will allow you to go one pay period into debt, no more, but if it happens you’ll get a visit from What Part of Budget Do You Not Understand—actual name,” she added before they could ask. “He changed it recently. You don’t want him dropping by. We drink at Musselman’s. You need bail, you contact your team leader first, then me, then your mother. If Commander Ng has to get involved, he won’t be happy, and if he’s not happy, he’ll make sure I’m not happy. Technically, I’m not your superior in anything but seniority, we’re still working out how much rank structure we want to maintain. That said, you don’t want to make me unhappy.”
Elisk raised his mug in salute. “Understood, Gunny.”
“Who’ll arrest us?” Lorkin spread his arms. “We’re Wardens.”
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Torin answered the question. “The Strike Teams are specialists, and we’re a minority among the Wardens—there are currently two hundred and eleven active Wardens working out of this station who’d happily arrest you in the name of the greater good. Many of the old school Wardens are . . .” She paused and flattened her voice. “. . . adorably idealistic. If you’re very lucky, you’ll never be lectured by a Dornagain who’s just stepped in a puddle of vomit.”
“If that’s the worst this place has to offer, I can cope.” Zhou had been with 1st Recar’ta, 2nd Battalion on Avonbye, the last, large ground offensive in Sector Seven. Both sides had brought along an extra artillery company and while casualties had been below average,
the amount of destruction had been excessive. Even for the Corps.
Torin allowed herself a small smile. “Get back to me on that. Settle into your quarters. Explore the station. The range and the gym are both open twenty-eight/ten, decontaminated between twenty-eight hundred and zero one hundred. If you get lost, your implants have been logged with the station sysop.” The four enlisted touched their jaws in unison. “Some of you can use the subvocalizing practice and you can’t ask a question too stupid to be answered. We have politicians here.”
Everyone glanced at Elisk, the team leader. He looked at her.
She let a little gunnery sergeant weight her voice. “Go.”
They went.
Technical Sergeant Yahsamus waited for her at the door, dark green hair flipping slowly back and forth.
Torin raised a brow.
“Wondered if you’d heard there’s been scuffles on the border with the Primacy.”
The Primacy was a six-day Susumi jump from the nearest coordinates the Confederation claimed as its border, but Torin, who’d spent twelve years in the fight, knew what the sergeant meant. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Could be malcontents, could be probing for weakness . . . the Primacy being an entire galactic civilization of the socially unevolved and all. Three ships, a few shots exchanged, a gas giant mining station destabilized during construction. Brass is keeping it need to know. More than usual.” Her eyes lightened as Torin shot her a silent question, and she touched the pheromone masker at her throat, not needing to point out that some people talked during sex. Had interaction with the Primacy involved more than plastic alien-encouraged invasion, the di’Taykan would have made invaluable spies. “Thing is,” she continued, “seems like only those actually involved in the interactions know anything about them. There’s nothing on the channels I’ve checked.”
Both Parliament and the people required full transparency from institutions paid for by the people. Not all information would be widely shared, but if the particularly pedantic wanted to know how the Corps wiped their asses in the field, they could find out. New interactions with the Primacy should have been top of the news stream twenty-eight/ten.
It took Torin a moment to understand the expectant silence. “What is it you think I should do, Tech?”
Her hair lifted. “You have other channels.”
“Hey, Sarge! You coming with?”
She waved at the other two di’Taykan in her team, waiting at the next hatch. “I should if we all pay attention. Gunny.”
“Tech.”
The Primacy was no longer Torin’s concern. The Confederation military was no longer Torin’s concern.
But why keep the details of new Primacy aggressions quiet? With Parliament discussing a vote on the unfortunate necessity of locking the Younger Races dirtside, lest their violent ways spread, Torin would have expected the military to shout about the potential of further hostilities. If the Confederation needed a military, then they needed the Younger Races, negating the need for the vote. It seemed obvious to Torin, but she wasn’t a politician and forcing herself to think in circles made her want to fulfill at least a few of the violent fears suggested by Parliament’s more alarmist members.
* * *
• • •
The Strike Teams had been consulted about training facilities when Justice had added onto the station—the range was a replica of the most popular range on Ventris—but their quarters were identical to those housing the station’s civilian population. For Humans, a kitchen/living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Couples had more space than singles and Justice had made it clear that quarters would be expanded should any of their new employees decide to start a family now they were out of the military. The quarters were larger than Torin’s NCO quarters on Fourth, significantly larger than the space she and Craig had shared on the Promise during Torin’s short career as a civilian salvage operator, large enough to be a relief after spending travel time in Promise’s current configuration with five other people.
There was nothing wrong with their quarters. The furniture was sturdy, the bed comfortable, the tech up to date.
Torin found them isolating.
As she’d told U’yun, this was a job. At the end of the shift, they went home.
Craig had flown alone before Torin and turned the isolation on board ship into a phobia, but he’d returned after every trip to the crowded, unstructured life of the Salvage Stations.
The first time he’d left the hatch to their quarters open, Torin had closed it.
The second time, she’d realized they had no immediate need for privacy, two other rooms to be private in if the need arose, and left it open.
At any given time, at least half the hatches leading to the quarters of Strike Teams on station were open and life spilled out into the passageway, making and maintaining connections. Building trust.
When Commander Ng, who continued to live in his pre-Strike Team quarters, pointed out that decompression hatches were meant to be left closed, Torin pointed out that no one on the Strike Teams would remain in their quarters should the station be hit, so the point was moot.
That evening, while waiting for Presit to return her call, Torin closed the hatch.
Craig twisted the collar off a capacitor and set it carefully down on their small table. “You need me to rack off?”
Torin took a moment to enjoy the muscles moving in his bare arms. “No, you’re good.”
He grinned. “That’s what I hear.”
She checked the buffer on her slate and paced the length of the room. It’d be faster to use the station’s communications array, but Alamber had installed some not exactly illegal protections on her slate to prevent the station sysop eavesdropping.
She paced the length of the room again. “Why am I getting involved? I’m not a politician. I hate politics.”
“You’re essentially the commander’s XO.”
“I’m essentially the commander’s first sergeant, not the same thing.”
“You convinced the Silsviss to join the Confederation, you outsmarted the plastic not once, not twice, but three times. You exposed their machinations and ended the war, then you created a new department within the Wardens and armed them.”
“None of that involved politics.” She frowned. “A couple could be called impolitic.”
Craig shrugged. “You get things done.”
“I get the job done.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I are assuming this are not a social call?”
Torin whirled to face the slate. Presit a Tur durValintrisy hadn’t changed physically since the first time Torin had met her on the Berganitan. Her silver-tipped fur was as beautifully thick, the black vee still running up her collarbone and over both shoulders to spread in a dark cape down her back. Her hands still looked like she wore black latex gloves and her claws had, as always, been professionally enameled. Expressions were often hard to identify on the fur-bearing members of the Confederation, but Presit had worn annoyed impatience often enough Torin couldn’t mistake it. “I have information for you,” Torin began.
Presit’s small round ears flicked as she listened. When Torin finished repeating the information Technical Sergeant Yahsamus had shared, she waved a dismissive hand. “No, I are not having heard about violent activity on the border. Probably because the border are being a ridiculous construct when anyone who are having a brain are considering the three-dimensional vastness of space.”
“Presit.” The Katrien reporter and furry pain in Torin’s ass had just repeated one of the responses Torin had given during a live interview.
“That are being my name.” When she tossed her head, silver highlights rippled through the thick fur of her ruff. “Don’t be wearing it out.”
Obnoxious was better. Obnoxious meant Presit was paying attention.
On the one h
and, decisions, even stupid ones, made by the officers involved in the skirmishes were none of Torin’s business. On the other hand, a vote to demote the Younger Races to a secondary status within the Confederation would lead to civil war. Stupid decisions could influence undecided members of Parliament. And, one way or another, if it came to war, people Torin cared about would be involved. That made it Torin’s business. Her popularity having grown beyond Sector Central News, Presit, as an independent investigative journalist, had, or could, gain access to everyone in this sector. The Confederation ran on accountability, and the Confederation worked. Torin wanted it to keep working.
For all her faults, Presit held everyone equally accountable.
Everyone except herself.
And Torin.
It was never Presit’s fault.
It was often Torin’s.
“However . . .” Presit combed her claws through her whiskers, right side, then left, red enamel glittering in even the low lights the Katrien required. “. . . if violent activity are happening on the border, then why are I not hearing about it? That are being the question. I are having broken the top stories in the last decade of the war. I are having been there on Big Yellow.”
Out of sight of the camera, Torin pressed her hand flat against the inert surface of the desk. Usually her nightmares involved failing to bring her people home, but—sometimes—her dreams took her back to the ship they called Big Yellow, to sinking slowly into the deck. Losing sight and sound and air. Plastic aliens slipping into her head through eyes and ears and mouth until it became their brain, not hers. Until she watched herself direct the war like it was a H’san opera, only the blood spilled and the lives lost were real.
“I are having been there on the prison planet.”
Although Presit hadn’t been imprisoned, starved, or drugged, she’d also carried a piece of the plastic aliens in her brain. Torin’s fingers curled into a fist.
